


There's A Place

by jbeakers



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cigarettes, Explicit Language, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:15:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbeakers/pseuds/jbeakers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul finally has a chance to face and deal with his memories and problems with John. It Don't Come Easy (I have a thing for Beatle songs and referring to them. You'll see)</p><p> </p><p>Disclaimer: I don't own The Beatles, or JohnandPaul. If I did things would be damn different. This story is full of shit I made up. Some of it based loosely upon known fact. The rest of it is my shameless personal indulgence. Know the difference.  ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Paul McCartney swung the nondescript SUV into the driveway of the nondescript house in a nondescript area of a nondescript county in England. Today he was nondescript Paul McCartney. He had several special days to spend with John Lennon. Today was the special one.

 

He took a deep breath and killed the engine, then sat back and observed his surroundings. The house was a shack, really, compared to the virtual luxury McCartney had been accustomed since his early twenties. This, however, had been his and John’s very first and only purchase all those years ago; ten acres with a shack in the middle of it.  The only thing they ever purchased together. Since mid 1964, this was something that belonged to only to the two of them.

 

Privately.

 

Not another soul knew about this place. No friends, family, staff, or management. Not even Brian Epstein. The most significant testament to what this place meant to John was Yoko didn’t even know about it. Not even a heroin confession could give away a matter of the heart. No matter how difficult things might have ever gotten between John and Paul.  Some things were sacred. In a fit of early ingenuity they purchased the property under fictitious names: William and Edward Brunswick.  Royal first names and a surname honoring one of Buddy Holly’s early record labels. They both adored the idea of legally sharing a surname. It was fun and romantic, and generally smile inducing for both of them. Youth is a wonderful thing!

 

McCartney grinned as his eyes swept to the sign hung above the front door. John’s decorating contribution.  _Castle Brunswick_  the faded black and grey sign announced. Paul recalled the day John gleefully tackled the job of hanging the sign. Lennon’s broad shoulders crammed into a black t-shirt, his hips narrowing into blue jeans; gallantly trying to batter a nail into submission.  The now sweaty and swearing faux carpenter quickly hung the sign by its chain and stood back to admire his job well done.

 

_“It could have been better had I had a hammer that wasn’t fucked up. We should get our money back on that thing, Macca. It’s a piece of shit…”_

 

Paul squinted and confirmed that the nail supporting the sign was still twisted into odd angles; the result of an over-excited and under skilled Lennon. He could see the smiling face, hear the ringing laughter and smell the distinct Lennon smells. The memory channel suddenly went haywire; the scene floating away and the colors melting into one another. Tears.

 

“NO!” he exclaimed, and shouldered the SUV’s door open scrambling out of his seat. “Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts…” he repeated over and over as he yanked the rear door open and grabbed a duffel bag from the back seat and slung it over his shoulder.  He went around the passenger side and opened the door to get John. Sort of. He lifted an old produce crate from the seat and slammed the door shut.

 

“Happy fucking thoughts, god dammit,” he swore as he headed up the steps.  He tried the door. Unlocked. Good. The place had been well taken care of over the years. Careful planning had seen to that. The door was never locked; he was that confident in the security of the place. They never had to use a key. He absently wondered how much luck had been involved as he stopped inside the front door and lost his breath.

 

The last time Paul McCartney visited Castle Brunswick… had been many years before John was killed. A couple of times in the 1970s. The truth of the matter was this: he never made it out of the car on those visits. It wasn't the same without John, he couldn’t go inside.

 

It wasn't right.

 

It was clean, as a service came monthly to clean and repair anything that needed repairing. Nothing had changed. Not a stick of furniture had been moved. Everything was as they left it so very, very long ago. It was intentional that the place was… nondescript. There was no clue that the Brunswicks were Beatles. Nothing.

 

The memories began to flow again. He heard the sounds of occupation… crackling fires in the fireplace, thumping of stocking feet, hushed voices. Laughter. Slowly he closed his eyes and let the sounds envelop him. Happy sounds. The smell memories hit him next… cigarettes, alcohol, candles, cooking food, good pot!

 

Tears again, and before he knew it a thick sob wracked his frame. He didn't stop it this time. While there was celebration to be had, he decided to allow himself a mourning period. For John. For himself. For the two of them. For this place so well taken care of, but so neglected. They wasted so much time.  He dropped the duffel bag on the floor, and set John on a nearby table—sinking into John’s favorite chair. It was time to just let the poison out. Everything he had held in for so many years.

 

For the first time in what felt like a life time, he was in a place he could just let his emotions flow. Pain, frustration, anger, disappointment, unfathomable loss. John Lennon had been the only person in his life who could truly understand all that he was feeling; which was ironic as John was the center of this storm of shit he was feeling. Over the years Paul had dealt with many types of grief. The most devastating was the Lennon heartache. The one that started long before John was taken, and actually showed some promise of resolving itself... which made his death even more catastrophic for Paul.

 

Linda was a saint of the highest order. She tried, and had some success helping Paul deal with it. She helped him manage and get things going in his life again. Even Linda couldn't fill the bottomless void, though. John and Paul simply understood each other in a different way, one they couldn't even explain to each other let alone a third party. It was just there. Call it soul mates, call it celestial pathways--whatever. It was there. What happened to them later in their relationship was proof enough they didn't understand their connection themselves. They fucked it up but good. For years Paul had been mulling this within his own little world. Always coming up short on the answer. Always wondering if he and John had both matured and actually spoke of their unique bond, perhaps they could have figured everything out. It simply wasn't to be. That this was troubling to Paul would be an incredible understatement.

 

A soft click and a hum started.

 

_“Jesus Christ, Macca!! Calm down, will ya? It isn’t the end of the world, for fuck’s sake…”_

 

John’s voice cut into his thoughts. Paul sucked a shuddering breath and jumped out of the chair. Did he really hear that voice, or just remember it? Fuck. Afraid of what he’d find, he stalked slowly toward the humming noise.

 

The memory came to him as he entered the kitchen. The sound was the ancient refrigerator. The damn thing quit shortly after they acquired the place, and John simply couldn’t understand why this upset Paul so badly.

 

_“Think about it Paul. Unless either one of our cocks require refrigeration, the bloody box is useless. Take the fucking thing outside and plant flowers in it or something.”_

 

 Paul burst out laughing, just the same as he had decades ago. It was after this incident he arranged for the monthly repair service. They kept that old fridge going all these years. Fuck the cost. The memory was more important.

 

He glanced around the kitchen and out into the small living area grinning sheepishly to himself. That little situation had ended in a long sweaty chase, as had many others. He leaned against the counter and continued surveying the place. Chases were the best. Getting caught was even better. He let go a silly chirp wondering if those Crime Investigating light things really worked after decades of cleaning. He lowered his lids half way and imagined the place bathed in fluorescing Beatle semen, sweat and saliva. John would love the hell out of that. Probably call it Loving Beatle Goo.  Ha! Nope, John would think of something better than that. For the first time in an hour Paul gave up a genuine smile. He should have known this was going to turn into an amusement park ride.

It was good to be alone with John again.

 

John! He’d completely forgotten. He pushed himself away from the counter and headed for the crate. He had some unpacking to do.

 

He pulled the crate across what passed as a dining room table and began unloading it, quickly checking his list off in his head. Carton of cigarettes, matches, John’s emergency duffel (kept at EMI at all times for the purpose of traveling to Brunswick at a moments notice), a worn notebook, John’s special box, Coca Cola, a decent bottle of scotch, and a very phony copy of Alice In Wonderland. It contained no pages. Just a hollowed out space for their pot stash. John called it the rabbit hole book. Silly git.

 

_“I swear, Paul. If you forgot the rabbit hole book, I’ll kick your rapturous arse from here to Scotland and back! … You’re sure? …  Right, then. Quit teasing me.  Your arse will be treated with tender loving care, in that case. Fucker. …  How much longer, then? …  Really? Fuck. Drive faster.  My hair is graying, I think…”_

 

Another fond grin crept onto Paul’s face as he recalled the joys of traveling alone with John. He really did love this place, and was unfailingly impatient to get here. While the drive straight from London wasn’t very long… the avoidance game they had to play to lose press and fans made it very long. Paul often wished he would have shared his escape methods with Brian. He used them this very day to get here. What with helicopters, smart phones, cameras and shit to deal with he still had no problem getting away. It was a secret he’d take to his grave. It was worth all the driving time. Even yoko couldn’t catch them with her ridiculous black magic and whatever fucked up methods caught her fancy. The bitch managed to get around that one didn’t she? He put it out of his mind for now.  He rolled his eyes and snatched the carton of cigarettes and ripped it open shaking a pack out. Like a naughty teenager, he made sure to bring all the shit he and John used to bring along.

 

He had cigarettes to smoke and a memory to revisit. He could already taste the bitter without even thinking of the sweet; cigarettes would help. Oh, FUCK how he missed cigarettes! He eagerly, but still expertly whipped the package open as he dropped into John’s favorite chair once again, laughing out loud, abruptly remembering the chair rule. 

 

_“OUT. I shouldn’t have to explain, Paul. OUT!! … I don’t care if it’s the only chair in the place. It belongs to me. … Go sit on that filthy sofa looking thing over there. You’re in my chair, get the fuck out. … I’m grinning, because you’re violating my new rule. This is the Willy chair. I am Willy, you are not. You may only sit in the chair if Willy is already seated. … If Willy could fuck himself, darling, you wouldn’t be here would you, now?? Ahhhh, now you’re getting it. HA! I don’t know who is thicker…Paul or Edward. Jesus! Oh, sorry. Willy chair rule two: visitors cannot be wearing trousers… off with them, son. That’s the ticket, my boy!  Welcome to The Willy Chair! OOF!! Willy Chair rule three should be implied. Sit gently unless told otherwise. Willy’s willy is a bit on the sensitive side, fat arse.”_

 

Paul continued to laugh as he fumbled with matches. How could he have forgotten the Willy Chair?! John stuck with it, too. Paul’s arse never again touched the shoddy seat in that chair as long as they spent time here. John was always there… always. He managed to get the cigarette lit and inhaled deep. He began choking a bit, more from the tears of laughter quickly turning to tears of despair than the fresh cigarette smoke. God Damn it, anyhow. How did it come to be that he was sitting in this chair without John?

 

He put the cigarette in the ashtray and readied himself for the visceral sob that he felt coming, dropping his face into his hands. The convulsion gripped him as his mind continued its torture.

 

He and John had spent many quiet hours curled up in this chair simply enjoying the silence. They brought nothing of their new and frankly frightening new world to this place. No radios, no newspapers, nothing. Not even guitars, which had in their own way quickly become work. Become stress. They were simply grateful for the complete absence of screaming, constant murmuring, cameras clicking and whirring, flashbulbs and daft questions. There was always noise. The noise started in Hamburg and never ceased. The raucous, adrenaline charging scream of rock and roll had been replaced with what they could only describe as black noise. There wasn’t a pleasant thing about it.

 

_“MMM. Paul, you’re gonna need to shift a bit, please. No, you don’t have to get up; I just can’t feel my hip. Here, switch sides, that’s it. Are you comfortable? …  Good … Silence really is golden, isn’t it, Macca? I’m so glad we have this place. You can take all the credit. Brilliant, Mr. Brunswick.  … Are you going to sleep? …  Oh, sorry. Gob shut. Sweet dreams.”_

 

“There’s a Place” wasn’t an accidental song. It was the first noise he and John made together documenting mounting stress, and for John at the time—another expression of love for Paul. Eventually they made the place in their mated minds a reality. It was here. In Castle Brunswick. In their minds the ‘alone’ in the song meant alone—together. It took a day in 1963 for Paul to recognize for himself the love that John had already been professing in song and body for quite some time. It took this day for Paul to catch up with the song part. It was life changing. It was beautiful, it was dangerous, it was thrilling, and ultimately—it was damaging. They both eventually lost sight of the importance of each other.

 

Paul lifted his face from his hands, noting the palms full of tears. He couldn’t decide whether they should be for the happiness he and John actually experienced, or for the happiness that could have been. So many questions. He allowed himself a few more guttural but cleansing wet groans before willing himself to calm down. He was taken aback by the sheer force of emotion that kept gripping him. A lot of years, a lot of tears he guessed. Maybe he should start writing country songs… no. He got up and headed to the loo to clean up a bit. Maybe it would make him feel a little better.

 

He turned the light on in the small room and his eyes immediately fell upon the toilet. Oh god. The one John had patently refused to piss in. Paul half giggled as he blew his nose, and threw the paper in the toilet. The voice came with the memory.

 

_“What are you, the piss police? … No, I’m not going to the bog, I’m going to the great outdoors. We’re in the great outdoors and it’s my male right to go piss on a tree. Got a problem with that?”_

 

Yes, John loved this place. So did Paul. With all the sneaking around they had done over the years, their late teenage dreams of being free to do what they wanted, where they wanted, and on their own (limited) schedule had fucking come true. While it was on a smaller scale than the actual dream, John’s glee was infectious. As a rule, Paul generally avoided participating in the wild ventures John concocted.

 

_“What? No, I didn't go out yet.  … I’m getting some toilet paper. ...  Christ Almighty, Paul. I’m a big boy. …  Yes, I’m going outside again … I have to take a shit, goddammit. … YES, outside. … I already explained that. … I’m a civilized English Lad, Paul, you wouldn't expect me to wipe with leaves would ya?? …  Mother Nature’s Son?  What the fuck is that?  An insult? … It’s not funny. If you don’t quit laughing and shut that magnificent gob, I’m gonna leave a nice pressie on the front step… Cheers, the loo’s free if you need it, Nancy Boy…”_

 

Thankfully the shitting in the woods stopped with that particular incident. Mother Nature’s Son failed to realize that there were other creatures that shit in the woods, too. Especially in the dark.  Something ran across his foot and he damn near broke a leg trying to get away. Paul never dared ask if he was in the middle of his rightful shit when that happened. Some things were best left to the imagination. John stubbornly continued his rightful male pissing—he refused to use the toilet. At night he opted for the safer option of pissing off the front step onto a nearby bush. Paul made a mental note to check and make sure the pissing bush was still there.

 

Once again Paul was laughing, and just wishing John was there he walked over and hugged the door jamb. It wasn’t John, and it was pathetic-- but it was something John had leaned on and it was good enough. Oh how he missed that stubborn, loving, extremely funny shithead named John. One thing Paul had never forgotten was how incredibly thankful he was to know this side of John. So terribly lucky.

 

He leaned back and patted imaginary door jamb John on the back. Silliness overtook him suddenly and he pecked the doorjamb’s imaginary cheek for good measure. John would have loved it. Looking into imaginary John eyes superimposed into the old lead paint he sighed and spoke, “Happy February 11th, love. I miss you…”

 

Fuck washing his face. He had a new plan for their celebration. Somehow renewed, he went to the kitchen and snatched two surprisingly clean tumblers from a shelf and headed to the living area again. This time he grabbed the scotch and a coke and made two strong drinks. One for him, one for John. This finished, he reached for the old notebook. This was the last notebook he and John had scribbled songs into. It was only half used. Today he would add to it.  No song, just a happy memory. He and John would share through a notebook once again. Paul smiled. Let the poison come later. Now was the time for happiness. It was time to celebrate his epiphany, a happy day for both of them. Yes.

 

He sat down at the table and started writing. A little more careful about the memory sparks he’d already experienced in the house, he concentrated on the paper and his thoughts.

 

_John and I had been virtually connected at the hip from the day we met. This became more literal as we got older, but that is another story to be told. The fears of our illegal activities, our individual situations, and our advancing fame made the situation seem impossible. It didn’t help that a lot of our personal time spent together was with a third party. Alcohol. This blurred things for us, wondering whether there were actual feelings or just pissed meanderings.  While John was further along in his feelings for me, than I was for him… I was happily jolted into a new reality on 11 February 1963. On this day we both recognized our special connection, and that it was far deeper and more spiritual than either of us imagined. As was our way, it was music that was able to show us the way—me in particular._

_We spent this day recording the majority of our first album. Please Please Me. A marathon recording session, and John was sick with a fever and head cold. The last song of the session was to be ‘Twist and Shout’. We’d performed this song countless times on stage and knew it better than our own names. John’s voice was already weakening from being ill and the paces it had been put through during the session. The song would almost certainly finish his voice off, so it was saved for the last._

_Had I speculated that any song would awaken me to Lennon, I would have guessed it would have been a song the two of us penned. It turns out I was terribly wrong._

_One thing I already knew about John Lennon. When he was sick? The world was cordially invited to go fuck itself. He had no compunctions about taking to his bed and sleeping until he felt better. John was fucking sick, and for him to show up for this session was huge._

_So John was frustrated, tired, sick, and stone cold sober. I was just tired and sober. He prepared for the last number by drinking and gargling with milk and sucking on zubes--trying in vain to preserve his voice and soothe some of the pain._

_Much has been written about this time, and the magic in that room during that take. I can attest to that because I was there. What few people realize is the magic they felt was happening between John and me. It’s unexplainable, but it happened._

_I watched him the whole time. With his jaw already setting in determination, John spit his last hard candy into a trash bin, and finished the last of his milk. He then ripped off his dress shirt and picked up his guitar. He had my attention, and he knew it. From the opening note until the last chord, the mood in the room completely changed. It was simply extraordinary._

_He was covered in a thin film of sweat… from his fever peaking and breaking… goosebumps broke out intermittently. His hair glistened with sweat. His face was flushed… but from the time the song started to the time it ended, we never broke eye contact. I don’t know how this couldn't have been obvious. Either everyone else regarded it as a sacred moment and never said anything… or everyone was just so entranced with the performance they never noticed. It really doesn’t matter._

_I’d seen John in every performance situation imaginable. I had never seen him like this. He was determined, flawless, and that voice could have seduced anyone in that room! I quickly realized his whole performance was directed at me. It was unbelievable. What can't be seen on the audio tape is when I scream in the middle of the song, it’s John who can hardly hold his note through a hard won smile. My ‘YEAH!’ at the end, was added unthinkingly and directed at John. The sound of John’s throat clearing that can be heard right after that was accompanied by the biggest smile I ever saw him wear. (I should know. I spent a lot of years trying to get that same smile out of him in every way imaginable. Even being directly asked and begged to remember how he felt that day he couldn’t reproduce it.) The connection had been made._

_He made a second half hearted attempt at another take, but it wasn’t going to happen. His voice was shot, and he knew his mission was complete. While happy and all, we still insisted on hearing the entire album before we left. Such good Beatle Boys we were._

_I can write about this forever, but only two people truly understood what happened that day: John and I. The otherworldly part of it is that I already possessed ridiculous lust for John. This wasn't a cliche "I saw him across the room and realized" kind of situation. It was ‘our thing’. It was official. It took a song and a push from sick but sexy Lennon to open my eyes. They were open. It was the moment I realized I was in love with John Lennon, and he received a long awaited confirmation of it. This was the culmination of years of avoiding the subject of love between us. It was fucking spiritual._

_John spent many years whining about that song. It was all an act. I know, he told me. He knew it was a performance of a lifetime, for all of us. He recognized his contribution and happily accepted it. What he DIDN'T like was to chat about it, because he was afraid he’d somehow give us away. One little thing about Lennon:  The worse he bitched about a song, the more likely it was connected to me in some way. All of them were related to me, which is why he repeated himself a lot. A repeated lie never has to be explained. Hell, I do the same damn thing. Throwaway songs... filler... all of that talk is bullshit.  I'm a fucking SONG WRITER for Chrissake! There isn't any such thing as a throwaway song, or a filler song. I'm just deflecting attention to it, much as John did. The songs John and I wrote together were our progeny. OUR CHILDREN. Conceived, raised, loved, then let loose on the world. We were responsible parents, dammit. We never threw a way a kid, or conceived one just because we felt we needed an extra one. Shit. Well, that's the truth of the matter. Just another facet of 'our thing'._

_I can’t listen to Twist and Shout without seeing that movie in my head. It makes me happy that our version of that song continues to make people so happy. It's a happy fucking song!!_  
  
Thank you John. That day was the happiest day of my life. And I thank you for the many happy days that followed. I know I keep saying this but it was simply magic.

_Paul E. Brunswick_

Having finished his own drink and half of Johns, Paul signed his notebook entry and drained the rest of John’s glass. He glanced over his notebook entry and giggled at how wordy the entry was. Alcohol made him wordy. Feeling happy about his memory, he then trudged outside to take a piss on Nature Boy’s favorite bush. Still there, and much bigger, it had flourished over the years.

 

It had been an emotional day, and the alcohol had him feeling calm and ready to sleep. Not in the mood to confront any bedroom memories, he picked up an afghan from the back of the Willy Chair and walked over and flopped himself down on the couch thing. As he pulled the scratchy crocheted material to his chin he also wrapped himself in happy 1963 memories and soon fell asleep. John was here. He could feel it. They could work it out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul continues to confront his memories of John, and other stuff.

**EMI Studio, Abbey Road 11 February 1963**

The last chords of Twist and Shout leapt out of the speakers on the control room wall, while John and Paul sat across the way from each other still staring a bit too obviously.

 

George Martin spoke first:

 

“You boys did a fine job today, I must tell you. You deserve to go home and get some rest. John? How are you feeling? Don’t talk, son. A gesture will do.”

 

The rest of the Beatles held their collective breath waiting for a typical pissy Lennon gestural answer. Turns out it was only a thumbs up, instead of the dreaded two-finger salute. Petulant John had apparently left the room.

 

After asking Martin a few tentative questions, George and Ringo leaned from their seats and stretched, mumbling about how some tea would be appropriate before leaving. John and Paul remained seated. Staring at each other as if they were witnessing each others ghosts.

 

Lennon stood up and turned toward the door.

 

“John? Where ya going?” Paul asked quietly.

 

John didn't answer. He turned toward Paul and touched his own groin. Silently.

 

Paul’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open, startled at such a brash invitation! Holy shit!

 

Lennon rolled his eyes and shook his head, barely whispering, “Take a piss, yeah?”

 

Paul nodded and grinned stupidly. Whoops. John turned and left the room. Paul got up to pester the engineers with some questions, which turned into a bit of a discussion. Eventually he realized John hadn't returned. He thanked the engineers and wandered down to the studio.

 

George and Ringo were leaning on a piano sipping tea.

 

“Oi, where’s John? He was just going to take a piss.”

 

“He did. Then said he was sneaking out on the roof for a smoke. Didn't want you or Martin to see him smoking.” George answered.

 

“And you let him go?” spat an incredulous Paul.

 

“Of course I did, you prat. I’m not gonna fight with him over a ciggie. If he wants to pain himself further, let him!”  Cranky, exhausted George spat right back.

 

Paul shrugged. Geo was right. If Lennon was determined to have a smoke, he’d flatten George to get it.

 

“Right. Well, hand over his coat. He didn't even take it? It’s fucking February! It’s cold as hell out there!”

 

“His problem, not mine, Paul. You go deal with him. He’s impossible when he’s sick.”

 

Paul nodded and took a step, wondering exactly where the roof access was. George caught it right away.

 

“That way, Paul,” he pointed a long finger. “Through the door and up the stairs.”

 

“Thanks, mate.” Paul grinned.

 

He braced himself for the cold blast as he pushed through the door at the top of the steps. FUCK. COLD!! Involuntarily, he tucked his hands into his armpits and let his eyes sweep the area partially lit by moonlight. No John. Dammit.

 

He DID smell cigarette smoke, though. He squinted harder and saw a cigarette burning.  With no John attached to it. It was sitting on the stone roof ledge. Great.

 

As he took a step toward the lonely cigarette, two arms grabbed him around the waist from behind. Instantly, his back was warm.

 

“It seems my Paulie ciggie trap worked”, the raspy voice whispered into his right ear.

Paul grinned and opened his mouth to answer, but an uncomfortably warm hand gently covered his mouth.

 

“Shhh. I talk first. I had to suffer through listening to those takes with my mind spinning out of my head, and I feel as if I’m about to have a bloody nervous breakdown.”

 

Paul nodded. John uncovered his mouth and turned him around, pulling him close.

 Without a thought Paul turned himself a bit and shook out John’s coat and draped it over his mate's shoulders. He slipped his arms around John’s waist and looked into his face. Despite the dim moonlight he could see his features and noticed how wide-eyed and unguarded he was. Not to mention pale as a ghost.

 

“I don’t know what it was about the last song today, Paul. But before we even started, I felt a change. My throat was aching me, and too warm with fever—I guess… but I just got this daft happy feeling for no fucking reason.”

 

“I noticed. I don’t think it was fever, John...” John talked right over him.

 

“Suddenly I was too warm, and decided if I was gonna have to scream my brains out I might as well be comfortable and yanked my shirt off—but I saw you looking my way, and god damn if I didn't get—happier?” Paul felt the full body shudder from John, not sure if it was from the memory or from being sick. He had his suspicions and tightened his grip, encouraging him to keep talking.

 

“S-so we’re playing, singing, and staring at each other and… it was perfect. This group is a lot of things, Paul, but perfect has never been one of them. I just… don’t understand.  I’m fucking confused, I know there was something going on in there with you and me and I’m happy about it and I don’t know exactly why. Now I sorta think I have so much…uh…so many things I…uhm…aw, fuck. I have a lot to say and I can’t seem to…”

 

“You don’t have to, John.”

 

He felt John stiffen. “But, Paul. You aren't listening…”

 

“I am listening, John. I wonder if I could say something to you that might make all of this anxiety shit of yours go away?”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?!”  Even through his painful, ragged and hushed voice Paul could hear the exasperation. Now John was wild eyed and looking everywhere around them, probably thinking about escape. Paul didn’t blame him. He gave John a quick squeeze and spoke.

 

“John, please look at me.”

 

Lennon coughed painfully, and swung his gaze around to Paul once again.

 

“I love you, too, John.”

 

For the first time since Paul McCartney met John Lennon, Lennon was silent. He stared at Paul, jaw swinging free. Paul figured it was a good time to elaborate.

 

“I don’t know what it was about today either. It just all came together, didn't it?  For some years now we've been doing all sorts of naughty here, there, and everywhere and I think it’s safe to say we've both been afraid of a lot of things. I realized today you love me, and that I've been afraid to admit I love you too. Am I wrong?”

 

John slowly reeled his jaw in and shook his head.

 

“No. You’re not wrong. I've loved you for a very long time and have wanted to tell you for a very long time. I was too afraid you wouldn't love me back, would tell me to fuck off…”

 

“Shh about that now,” Paul said as he leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss to shut him up. The next part wasn’t going to be easy.

 

“Listen to me. Hear what I say. You’re sick and I’m freezing to death, we need to get the hell off this roof and get you taken care of.  We have plenty of time to talk about this. If you get any sicker, Brian’s gonna…”

 

“Hmmm. Nice try, Macca. Quoting Buddy Holly will get you nowhere,” John squeaked painfully as he grabbed Paul by the arms, turned him and shoved him up against the cold metal door.

 

Everything went black.

 

Then everything was bright, at least as seen through eyelids. The back of Paul’s head ached and he slowly opened his eyes, met by the sight of a cracked plaster ceiling. Castle Brunswick’s shitty ceiling. What?

 

He was on the floor, with the afghan bunched up in an intimate embrace. It had all been a dream, and he’d managed to fall off the sofa. Brilliant.  He grinned, still feeling Lennon’s heated face planted in the hollow of his neck. It was a great memory. He closed his eyes and basked in it for a bit. Oh, John…

 

Fuck. Some 40 years ago, landing on the floor wouldn't have been any big deal. It sure as fuck was now. Dammit. He sat up and planted an elbow in the sofa cushion and pushed to get up, all kinds of shit in his joints cracking intermingled with old man grunts. God. John would laugh at him now… arsehole. He was supposed to be here needing and feeding him at 64. Shit.

 

He flopped down on the sofa and looked around. No John. He thought about calling out, but thought it silly. It just felt as if he could, as if John had just walked into the other room, or stalked outside to piss in his great outdoors. A feeling he found strange and overwhelmingly sad all at the same time.

 

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Did he smell cigarette smoke? He jumped up and looked around.  _Jesus Christ. This place has been here for 43 fucking years, and I’m gonna burn it down in one night_ , he thought grimly. He turned and stared at the dining room table… a cigarette was burning in the ashtray… sitting on top of the notebook. What the HELL? It was only half smoked.

 

He slowly walked to it and picked it up, tentatively taking a drag. How could it be that a cigarette burned all night long? It couldn't. His eyes fell to the notebook and he felt the hair on the back of his neck bristle. Written below his entry in messy, but terribly familiar handwriting:

 

_“So sorry about kicking yer fat old arse off the filthy sofa. Nice dream you were havin’. I remember every detail. You never did walk the same after that, not sorry about it either.  
I never stopped loving you, Eds. No matter what you think.  Stay the fuck out of my chair. Have you forgotten the rules??_

_–Willy.”_

Paul stared at the entry as if it had reached out and slapped him.

 

“NO!!” he shouted and moved away from the table, cigarette still in hand. He paced and smoked. It couldn't be. He stopped and stared out a nearby window and grinned. It had finally happened!

 

“I’ve lost my motherfucking MIND!!” he hollered and headed for his car. He was hungry. Maybe food would make things more clear. He stomped out to the car and retrieved another box. The food box. As he headed up the steps again, he dropped the box having decided to piss on John’s bush again. No rules against that, Willy, my insane friend.  His mind raced as he watered the bush again.

 

I've completely lost it. I’m writing fucking notebook entries for John while asleep. Wonderful. 

 

Now he was mad. Paul always hated things he couldn't understand. Feeling particularly huffy, he—carefully—zipped up, grabbed the box and made his way to the kitchen. Still pissed off, he dropped the box in front of the refrigerator… and unloaded everything into it whether it needed refrigeration or not.  _There ya go, Johnny boy. Tell me it’s a useless appliance NOW! Fucker._

 

He grabbed some snack crackers and a bottle of water and left the kitchen. Time to sit and think about his mental health. Water wouldn't do. Scotch and Coke… breakfast of The Beatles of Yesterday. YES. He poured a stiff drink and sat down. In the fucking Willy chair. He wasn't going to give his little Willy voice the satisfaction of minding it. Go to hell, Willy.

 

It was time for poison, his mind had obviously been telling him. Fine. Here we go. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes. What was bothering him so? John was dead. Check. He missed him. Check. His current life was a mess. Check. He missed John. God. He missed John long before he was dead. It was a never ending ache. It never went away.

 

_“We’re leaving.”_

 

Those were all too common parting words when John and Yoko left recording sessions at what had become known as simply Abbey Road.  Paul never bothered to answer. He watched Lennon take the little invader’s hand and head for the door. John opened it and exited, never looking back at Paul. But she did. Every single time. That smug fucking non-grin he longed to backhand right off her skull.

 

Time and time again he watched John leave.  It was all unbearable. Brian always seemed to be the one who managed to hold things together. When they lost their anchor, things started really going to hell.

 

Oh, Brian.

 

_“Shut up, Brian. WE’RE HERE.  Let’s just get on the fucking plane and go, before I change my mind!”_

Brian was red, and huffing mad. John and Paul had arrived late at the airport to leave for another tour, spent too long at Castle Brunswick. In a rare show of balls, Brian had questioned John directly. Where had they been?

 

Completely pissed off, John roughly grabbed Epstein by his lapels to put a pointed end to the interrogation. Paul held his breath. If he told Brian about their special place, all would be lost.

 

_“I’ll tell you where we've been… Paul and I plucked a couple of good looking boys from a London street, and took them to the woods. Neither of us had the slightest idea of how fun Queer games could be. I didn't want to leave, and now we’re late.”_

 

Stunned into silence, his color turning from angry red to pallid white, Brian nodded and looked away. John released him and turned to board the plane. Brian never asked about them being late again.

 

Paul smiled and chuckled, as he sipped his drink and reached for another smoke. No one on earth could put Brian in his place like John could. Then Brian was gone. John followed a short few years later; kidnapped by a succubus. Paul’s face fell for the billion and fifth time at that thought. Yoko.

 

They continued to visit Castle Brunswick after she kicked the private Beatle Door open and waltzed in. Too soon John began to pull away. The last time they were here, Paul broke a protocol of his own and questioned John about it. They always agreed this was a world apart of their Beatle world.

 

_“What are you talking about, Paul? We’ll be back. You worry too much. Yes, we’ve been busy, and soon we’ll have even more time to spend here! You know how much I love it!”_

Less than six months later, John left Cynthia.  Immediately John took Yoko on full time.

 

Exactly three years after his divorce was final, the wily bitch had managed to not only devour John’s heart and soul—she abducted him from England. Forever.

 

Yes, in this time Paul had met and married Linda. The saint. She stayed right by his side through the horrors of losing John, and of losing The Beatles. He wouldn't have survived it all if not for her. He certainly wouldn't have survived losing John for eternity had she not been there. Oh, and John’s magic box.

 

The box! Paul jumped up and grabbed the small, black oblong box from the table, clutching it to his chest. He closed his eyes to avoid looking at the unsettling notebook and turned on his heel, almost running to the Willy Chair.

 

He discovered John’s box years ago. After one of the many times he was deserted by John and The Twat in the studio. Tired, lonely, frustrated, and in no mood to go home he had lit a joint and wandered about the large room. Poking around in places he hadn't looked at in years, the novelty of the studio long worn off.  He rummaged around a dusty shelf in the corner and saw the box, dusty and long forgotten. Sort of like he felt right at the time.

 

He blew the dust off the box and rubbed it on his shirt as he headed to the piano bench to sit down. He set the box on the piano and removed the cover. A metronome, likely a studio relic from the 1950s.  He found the key inside the front cover and wound the spring, set the weight for 4/4 and released the arm. He listened to the comforting precision of ticks, and suddenly found himself singing softly with the marked time…

 

_Heartbeat… why do you miss when my baby kisses me??_

_Heartbeat… why does a love kiss stay in my memory??_

_Riddle-de-pat, I know that new love thrills me...._

_I know that true love will be..._

_Heartbeat... why do you miss when my... ACK!!_

 

He couldn't go on any more, with tears flowing and his voice thickening with the pain pouring from his broken heart. He longed for the call back format he and John had fallen into with this song, in bed, at Castle Brunswick. The private Buddy Holly song they shared among promises, forevers, and everything in between! The playful song they just both picked up and started singing together, voices joined for no audience or money. Just an intimate celebration of them, and their virtual marriage through song. Their personal magic.

 

“FUCK, JOHN!!! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO US?!” he shouted to the ceiling of Castle Brunswick, his voice equally as thick as it was all those years ago.

 

Tears standing in his eyes, he carefully set the box on the table next to the chair and removed the cover, wound the key, and started the pendulum. For almost 40 years this box had been a constant companion. When things went sideways for them, Paul used this box for comfort. John’s magic box. John’s heartbeat when John couldn't or wouldn't be there with him. Everyone thought it was simply a songwriting tool for Paul. It wasn't. It was JOHN. It was the sweetest music John Lennon ever made, and Paul ever felt. When missing John became unbearable, out came the metronome. Paul could close his eyes and imagine his head resting on John's chest.  He could feel and hear every beat of John's heart again. Strong, regular, and unceasing. 

 

The box was, however, a lousy replacement for the real thing. Things went to shit for them and they both more or less stood by and casually watched it all collapse. Both of their mouths running, saying NOTHING.

 

Paul watched and listened to John’s virtual heartbeat. He picked up his drink and quaffed what was left.

 

If he was going to have a mental war with himself over John, it was time for another volley.

 

He headed to the notebook.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul continues to confront his memories of John, and other stuff.

Paul sat at the table and organized his space. Cigarettes, matches, ashtray, fresh drink. Pen in hand, notebook. He re-read the Willy entry:

 

_So sorry about kicking yer fat old arse off the filthy sofa. Nice dream you were havin’. I remember every detail. You never did walk the same after that, not sorry about it either. I never stopped loving you, Eds. No matter what you think. Stay the fuck out of my chair. Have you forgotten the rules??_

_-Willy_

  
Then began to write his response:

 

_Yes, Willy, our rooftop celebration was very special. So special it can’t be willingly erased from memory. Call it a soul imprint, if you like. We both walked a bit differently after that night didn’t we? Sore arses and bite marks aside, we moved about the world with more confidence and happiness. We knew we had each other to take on whatever life was going to heap upon us.  Our connection was magnetic, necessary, and extraordinary._

_WAS._

_Then it eventually faltered. I don’t believe this is what was supposed to happen. I never stopped loving you, either. I still do. I miss you and still cannot believe you’re gone._

_I have broken no rules. If there is no Willy here to fill the Willy Chair, no foul has been committed. It doesn’t stop me from being completely pissed off at you. You should be here. I should not be sitting here in OUR PLACE alone. We wasted so much time; we should have come here more often than we did. We should have done a lot of things differently. Now for almost 30 years, I have been completely without you—with no chance of things improving between us. It’s wrong, John._

_I miss you. I hate you. I love you. That has been our relationship since you fucked off and quit coming here. Since you chose drugs and a crazy woman over US.  Once again I’m alone…you have the audacity to die and leave me having to deal with that fucking leech you allowed into our midst, then into our BUSINESS. It is ME stuck with the responsibility to outlive her. Yet I continue to paste a dumbass smile on my face and act like I’m glad to see her. Just like I had to when you were here—I continue to be Mr. PR guy, still trying to please everyone… still trying to please YOU._

_Fuck you John Lennon. God Damn you, I love you with all my heart._

_Piss Off!_

_Paul_

 

Paul signed his entry and with a huff of defeat, flipped the pen over his shoulder. Caught between tears and blind rage, he stared at the wall unable to decide what to do.  He needed to unwind, the tension felt like steel bands around every inch of his torso.

 

He needed to read something interesting, something to help him calm down a bit. Alice in Wonderland would be perfect.

 

He pushed himself from the table and reached for the Rabbit Hole book. Fuck Heather and her hating drugs. Jesus Christ, he was smoking pot before the slag was even born. Bitch.

 

He grabbed matches and made for the filthy sofa.  He grunted as he dropped onto the cushion, simultaneously opening the book. Just like times gone by, he had prepared. John had no patience so it was up to Paul to make sure the joints were rolled before they even left for the Castle. Fucker. He plucked one out of a plastic bag, put it in his lip and lit it.

 

He pulled on it long and slow… feeling his lungs expand and grow heavy. Perfection. God, the stuff grown now was so much better than days gone by. _There’s another thing you missed out on Lennon, growing technology. Shithead._

 

Slowly he let the smoke out of his lungs, feeling the calm slowly creep into his being. Fuck, he was angry. Fucking world. He sometimes wished he would have followed his Dad’s advice and found a real job… or gone to school. Had he never met Lennon, things might be fucking different. He certainly would never have had to deal with Yoko. Ugh.

 

He continued to smoke and roll things around in his mind. Anniversaries. He hated them now. He had for exactly 26 years. December 8, 1980. The worst one. The day John left everyone forever. Who celebrates death days, anyway?? Who wants to remember tragedy, when a person’s life can be remembered through birthdays… or all year round for that matter?

 

Whatever. For 26 years Paul McCartney wished he was dead too, come every December 8. The week before and on that day, every newspaper, television news program, magazine, radio talk show, and later… internet sites had to remember Asshole Paul. A stunned Paul addressing his best friends death with his immortal words: “Itsa drag, innit?” Those are the only words anyone remembers. He said a lot of other things to the rude and fucking insensitive bastards who chased him around with cameras and microphones. No one remembered any of the rest of it. They should have given him some time. They should have respected some kind of mourning period for everyone connected to John. Fuckers.

 

Then it got worse when Geo died. Jesus. Now every November 29, he is immortalized once again with fucking COMPARISONS of his reaction to each of his best mate’s deaths. Happy fucking HOLIDAYS. Paul McCartney is an inhuman PRICK.

 

He began to giggle. Mary Jane had really begun to tickle him, and he remembered his master plan to get back at the world for this injustice he had long been served. Yes, supersized ass pain Yoko Ono would help him get back at the press, and he would have his personal revenge for the bullshit she’d put him through for decades. For at least 20 years he’d been practicing.

 

Caught by giggles, he slowly rose from the couch and stubbed out his joint. Then made tracks for the tiny bathroom. It had a full length mirror. This is how he practiced when the mood caught him. Mostly when he was high, but he’d become very good even sober!

 

He entered the bathroom and saw the toilet. Nature Boy came to mind again and he leaned against the cool tiles and had himself a silly laugh over that. Oh, John. What was he in here for? Yoko. Right. He closed the door and met his 64 year old self in the mirror mounted on the back, and cracked up again.

 

“Wait, wait…I can do this…”

 

He straightened himself to his full height; hands respectfully clasped behind his back and cocked his head just slightly. Just like in the old Beatle days when dealing with the press. He narrated an asshole reporter’s voice for himself…

 

“Mr. McCartney, Mr. McCartney! What are your thoughts on the death of Yoko Ono??”

 

Paul then put on the most incandescent Macca smile he could muster and answered without pause:

 

“Itsa drag, innit?” and continued that completely honest and joyful smile, watching his imaginary enemies as his words sunk in. Listening to the throat clearings and light gasps coming from the sons of bitches who had tortured him for decades. Before they had a chance to recover, he would turn on his heel and leave, saying no more. His dreams of the legacy of those most hated fucking words would finally be transferred to a death that deserved them.

 

Free at last, free at last…

 

“HAHAHA! Fuck you, Yoko!!” he yelped as he wandered out of the bathroom. Wow, that really felt good!

 

Paul more or less skipped to the table and grabbed a fistful of snack crackers and stuffed them in his face. Shit, the munchies hit a little quicker after he passed 60. He snorted and returned to the filthy sofa and let himself fall face first onto it. Not comfortable. He turned over and settled in. Shit, the back of his head still hurt. Dammit. One thing pot did for him as an older gent… it allowed him to just close his eyes and drift off without fucked up images of anything current or past. He could just sleep.

 

He woke up hours later. Not quite as disoriented as the last time, and still had his ass on the sofa. Good thing. He felt strangely rested, and craved a cigarette. Better yet, he could actually have one!  Yawning and stretching, he sat up and turned to go to the table to grab a cigarette.

 

And froze.

 

A burning cigarette was sitting in the ashtray, on top of the notebook. Half smoked. Paul rubbed his eyes and looked again. Something was wrong. He stared at the scene trying to figure out what was amiss. He moved toward the table and expelled a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and stopped short when he noticed it.

 

The pen was back on the table. The pen John gave him. The same one he tossed over his shoulder hours earlier after finishing his entry.

 

Paul suddenly wondered if there was mental illness threaded through his family tree gone unnoticed. Then his mind completely vapor-locked, as he stood there trying desperately to reconcile the space and time it took for him to get up and retrieve a pen from the other side of the room, light a cigarette, and put everything on the table-- all while in a temporary pot coma.

 

Fuck it. He finished walking to the table and pulled out the chair and grabbed the pack of cigarettes. When his eyes fell to the notebook, he froze again. There was another entry written in the same messy-familiar chicken scratch.  He closed his eyes and sat down, blindly shook out a fresh smoke and lit it. After a few deep drags and exhales, he opened his eyes and began to read:

 

_Dearest Eds,_

_It is so good to know that I am the center of blame for everything that went wrong with US. You really should be thanking me, I think. Your perfect life for the last 40 years or so is absolute evidence of that, isn’t it?_

_Your success in the music world is unparalleled. Your marriage to Linda was as perfect as it can get. You hit quite the rough spot when she left the physical plane (my heartfelt condolences, by the way), but McCharmley had no trouble filling her spot, did he?_

_Oh, wait. You make mistakes, too, don’t you? How are things going with Dear Heather McGimpley?? Not well? Could it be that Perfect Paul McCartney chose a gold digger for a second wife? Could it be that he compounded that mistake by having a child with her further strengthening her legal bond with him beyond the marriage certificate?_

_Congratulations, son. Welcome to the Lennon Club. At least I can blame a great deal of my mistake on drugs. What is your excuse for allowing a LEECH into the midst of your family? Are you taking precautions to make sure she stays out of your BUSINESS?? If marrying that peg-leg trash was an effort to make you feel whole again, that plan failed._

_On the US side of those thoughts, I’m quite proud of you. You have taken the step I never did, and should have. You’re in the process of leaving the bitch. You must remember the phone call we shared in 1979, don’t you Paul? The one we spoke of our place, our Castle Brunswick? That was the beginning of my separation process. Think about it. It will come to you. I never got to finish my process. I’m sorry for that, one of many regrets I have._

_I think perhaps we should begin referring to each other as Pot and Kettle. Pot and Kettle Brunswick has a catchy ring to it. Perhaps even magical._

_“Our connection was magnetic, necessary, and extraordinary. WAS.”_

_I take issue with this, Paul. Our connection is STILL magnetic, necessary, and extraordinary. It still is, and always has been, valid. It always will be.  If you believe that connection was ever truly broken, you’re lying to yourself. Even death doesn’t interrupt a connection like we HAVE._

_Kitchen, second drawer. Pull it out and see what is taped to the back of it. It has been waiting for your attention for a very long time. It was another silly plan of mine that I let fear get in the way. Just being me, I suppose. I meant to lead you to it the last time we were here… already knowing it would be the last time. Yes, my mistake. Yes, another regret. My hope is better late than never._

_I love you, Paul. Always believe that._

_Forever yours,_

_John_

 

_PS. If you don’t do that “Itsa drag, innit?” thing when Yoko kicks it, I will find a way to come and make your life a living hell, My Brilliant Mr. Brunswick._

 

Wide eyed and blank faced, Paul read the entry several times. Wow, how did his mind come up with all this stuff? Phone call? 1979? Kitchen drawer… that’s where his imagination’s bluff could be called. Fuck. John hadn’t been here for years. Jesus. He may not have to worry about divorce or custody cases, after all. There wasn’t much to be done when they dropped his raving lunatic ass in a madhouse.

So he pushed his lunatic ass out of the chair and ran for the kitchen. No time like the present to put his imagination to shame.

 

He grabbed the second drawer and yanked it free, dropped it on the counter, and spun it around. He shouted his surprise when he saw the envelope, attached to the drawer with yellowed cello tape. His name scrawled across the front, with a short note below it in different colored ink. He ripped the thick envelope off for closer inspection.

 

_“Paul”_

 

And under that:

 

_“10 Aug 1971 Leaving England soon. I’ll be back again. Miss you.  Love, John”_

 

Slowly, with tears forming in his eyes, he ripped the end out of the envelope and peeked inside.

 

Everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul struggles with his memories of John... and gets rewarded. ;)
> 
> Last chapter. Thanks for reading...

**First week of September 1979**

****

Paul finally got home and was ready to relax. He had a little break before Wings took off for the UK tour and just needed some quiet time. Linda had hauled the kids off somewhere for the evening and he was alone at last. He had pot and quiet. Peace would be the sum of both.  Life was good.

 

Then the phone rang…and rang… and rang. He tried to ignore it. What if it was an emergency? He jumped up and jogged to the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hiya Paul.”

 

“John?!”

 

Paul closed his eyes and groaned inwardly. While their sporadic phone conversations were pleasant enough, John sounded bored and not himself. This made Paul a bit uncomfortable.

 

“Yep, it’s me. Just callin’ to see how you’re doing. I heard you were touring again soon.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Just resting up a bit before the grind starts. How are you, then?”

 

He could hear John falter, searching for words.

 

 “Oh, I’m just waiting for Yoko. We’re supposed to go out and look for a holiday house. I want to spend some time around real plants for a bit. Get away from traffic sounds and all that.”

 

“Oh, that should be nice for you. Get some relaxation time in.”

 

John didn’t answer.

 

“John?”

 

“Yeah, I’m here. I miss the country. I miss Scotland, actually. Strange, isn’t it?”

 

“No, not really. Why don’t you holiday in Scotland, then? You’re legal in the US now, as I recall. You shouldn’t have to worry.”

 

“No. I’m legal. Yoko is paranoid they won’t let me back.”

 

Paul rolled his eyes and bristled silently at the Yoko reference. Paranoid?  Bullshit. If she was paranoid about anything, it was JOHN not wanting to return to the US. Bitch. He hadn’t been home in so long. If he went to Scotland, England was sure to follow. John could be a sentimental shit, and The Twat knew it.

 

“I’m determined, though. I really want Sean to see Scotland. So I’m thinking just he and I will make a trip one day. For some reason 1981 sounds like a good time. He’ll be old enough to remember it, you know?”

 

“He’d love it, John. I’m sure he loves the great outdoors just like his Da.”

 

John sucked in a breath, and didn’t answer. The silence grew.

 

“Paul?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“That reminds me. Uh. What ever happened to Castle Brunswick?”

 

Paul’s eyes went wide, and his legs lost all strength. He sunk to his knees in front of the kitchen wall and leaned his forehead against the wallpaper. He squeezed his eyes shut, afraid to speak. Terrified of what he may sound like if he answered that particular question!

 

“Paul? You can answer. Yoko’s not here. She doesn’t know, I’ve never said a thing…”

 

Paul felt the sting of tears, and hoped like hell his voice didn’t betray his reaction.

 

“It’s still there, John.” He managed to keep his voice even.

 

He could hear John breathing, but he didn’t answer right away. He guessed maybe he was trying for the same control Paul was struggling for. He hoped he was…

 

“It…it is? I thought you would have sold the place long ago, Paul.”

 

John sounded absolutely amazed. Paul found his control again. Now he was pissed. How could he assume such a thing?  _Don’t start a fight. Just keep talking._

 

“Yes, John. It’s still there. I couldn’t sell it. Both Brunswicks would have to sign to sell it. I wouldn’t have asked that of you, anyway.” He held his breath waiting for John’s reaction.

 

“Unbelievable. I really thought it was…gone. Wow. Maybe we’ll have to visit when I go to Scotland. I’ve nothing but time on my hands, you know?”

 

This statement threw Paul into full panic mode. John’s voice had taken on an excited tone, he sounded genuinely happy at the thought of visiting their place.

 

“Yeah, Sean and I can visit England while we’re out and about! Shit! I can leave him and Fred at Mimi’s and we can make a trip to The Castle! I’d really like that, Paul.”

 

Paul could hear the definite smile in John’s voice. _Holy shit. Is he serious? Is Lennon fucking with me? What do I say?_   

 

He smelled cigarette smoke. What? He took the imaginary receiver from his ear and looked about. He was on the kitchen floor at Castle Brunswick, flat on his back staring at the shitty ceiling. Wrong kitchen. What the f---. Uh oh.  Multiple memories came screaming at him all at once. The notebook entry, the kitchen, the envelope. He remembered the phone call the entry mentioned. He’d apparently blocked it completely out of his mind.

 

He hiccuped and burst into tears, the envelope still clutched in one hand. _God._

Slowly he rolled to his knees and got to his feet. It was just too much. He looked at the envelope in his hand…  _John had been here before he left England. By himself? Oh, shit. He knew the last time we were here was the last time he would be here with ME!_  
  
His mind continued to taunt him.  
  
 _He was planning to come back here. With me. While he’d originally planned for 1981 he settled on 1980, because he was so excited about it. He wanted to TALK, but wanted to start fresh… in a new decade. Then we both got busy. Again.  Oh shit, I forgot all about that phone call…_

 

He shuffled into the living area and saw the half smoked cigarette. Terrific.  His mind was still reeling, his emotions completely tangled around his feet. He could hardly walk.

Clutching the envelope to his chest he walked to the table, his breath hitching, and picked up the cigarette. He smoked and cried. It’s all he could do. It was all so sad, so fucking SAD!

 

Clenching his jaw, he willed himself to calm down and glanced down at the notebook. In huge letters it read:

 

_“ENVELOPE, PAUL. READ.”_

 

Paul sucked in a wet breath and exhaled slowly. He raised the envelope and looked again.  A letter. Fuck.  He sniffled and went to sit on the filthy sofa, knowing already he was unprepared for whatever he was to read. Shit.

 

He settled onto the sofa and dumped the contents of the envelope in his lap. Two rings. Two John and Paul sized rings… oh John. When? Where? How? They never talked about rings or commitments… or marriage. Never. What the hell was John THINKING? Then he fished the letter out hoping like hell it had some answers. He was so sick of questions!

 

He startled at the date.

 

_December, 1965_

 

_Dear Paul,_

_Before you go off your head about discretion and my lack of it... These rings were purchased while we were on tour, shortly after our first official visit to Castle Brunswick. No one knew me, I paid cash, and it was a rush job…for William Brunswick.  So there._

_I’m writing this letter just in case I lose my nerve. I’m not very good at these things, though I want very much to be good at them. When it comes to things like this, I just get tongue tied and can’t spit anything sensible out of my gob. I blame you for this. I’ve tried several times in quiet moments. So this may have to do. Yes, that is the explanation of late evening hand grabbing and me stuttering. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t really lose my train of thought. I’m something of a coward. Sorry._

_In my perfect world where I can manage to speak eloquently to you, I would imagine saying the following:_

_My daft happy feeling hasn’t gone away since that strange recording session. I’m glad it hasn’t, and I felt we needed something tangible to commemorate the love we have for each other. I have never felt something so right. It’s so clear it hurts to think about it._

_I didn’t worry about sizing. We’re one, and I just know we wear the same size. I’ll be curious to find out if I’m right._

_I chose white gold for our rings.  It is precious, but with added strength. It is beautiful, but retains a bit of a common look._

_It’s us, Paul. We’re white gold._

_I had 11 February 1963 engraved inside each band. At this time I consider this our date of commitment. I have a feeling you do too._

_Hopefully I will find my balls somewhere and be able to slip this on your finger myself. I know we can’t be wearing these all the time. Maybe we can just wear them while here._

_I’d like that._

_I love you,_

_John_

 

Paul gaped at the letter in disbelief. 1965. The year after they acquired Castle Brunswick. This might have changed everything. Fucker. Dammit! Why, why, WHY???

He grabbed up the rings and letter and went back to the table. What now?  _Thanks, John. I’m fucking missing you and dreaming, and hitting my head on shit, and fainting. For fucking WHAT?_

 

A pissed off and frustrated Paul shouted to the room. “FINE, you son of a bitch. I believe you’re here. Now what?!” He waited. Nothing. He snorted, knowing there wouldn’t be a response. He’d lost his fucking mind and that’s all there was to it. He yanked another cigarette from the pack and lit it. Shit. His eyes flew over the table and noticed things were moved. Again. This time it was John’s emergency duffel. It was open. What the bloody FUCK?

 

God damn. Maybe Heather had found out about this place and John. Or maybe Yoko did. Or maybe Yoko already knew and told Heather and the bitches joined the same coven and had decided to come drive him crazy.

 

Maybe he just needed to get a grip.

 

He reached for the duffel and sat down. Paul had hung on to the duffel for decades, kept at Cavendish in case John ever returned, he supposed. He had remembered it shortly before deciding to come here, and placed it in the John crate. Sentimental Paulie…

 

 It hadn’t been opened since they were here last. They had finished a very successful recording session at Abbey Road and Yoko was off shaving avant garde squirrel asses or some shit. They had a few days to be alone. John disappeared out of the studio before the last playback was even finished. He’d retrieved his duffel from one of the closets and was eager to leave. Paul shook his head, as it all made sense now. 

 

Paul glanced sadly at the letter. John had held onto those rings and letter from his decision to commit… right through his decision to leave. He sighed _. Find the positive, Paul. He didn’t throw the envelope out. It must have meant something to him._

 

Paul turned his attention back to the duffel. He pulled out John’s favorite sweatshirt.  He immediately put it to his face and huffed the smell. All John. Remarkable. It should be musty, at least. But it wasn’t. Weird.  He held it up and looked it over. Emblazoned across the front of the navy blue was “WPGC Good Guys”. John adored this sweatshirt acquired in the states in 1964. It was getting worn and ratty, but John refused to let it go. Paul wondered if John missed this shirt in the years after Castle Brunswick became a distant memory…

 

He pulled out John’s shaving kit, a pair of shorts, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, underwear. He giggled.  _Not much time spent in those here, old boy. Ha!_ Socks, paper, pencils, an ancient pack of cigarettes and an extra pair of horn rimmed glasses. Paul always insisted he wear those here. He hated the wire rims. They were just wrong.

 

Damn. Nothing of interest, except the smell. Paul grinned stupidly wondering what he thought he’d find in here. Answers? Not bloody likely.

  

He picked up the sweatshirt and draped it over his shoulders, wishing John was in it. Christ. He then picked up the rings and went to the Willy Chair to study them and consider what all this meant. Shit. Why did he come here? Why was he putting himself through all of this?

 

Tick…tick…tick… the sound started out of nowhere.

 

What the hell? He turned and looked at the chair side table. The metronome was gone. John was gone. He could feel his heart clench in panic.

 

Tick…tick… tick…tick…tick…

 

Paul held his breath and looked up.

 

The bedroom door was open, and the ticking was coming from there. He’d intentionally avoided the bedroom. He didn’t open that door.

 

Someone was in the house. He couldn’t decide whether to run for the car or investigate. Figuring he was crazy anyway, he got up and stole toward the bedroom door.

 

Tick…tick…tick… the sound got louder, the closer he got to the door.

 

All the lights in the bedroom were out, but the ticking persisted.

 

Paul stood in the doorway, listening and straining to see inside the room. Gathering his courage he flipped on the ceiling light.

 

The light stabbed his eyes, but he recovered quickly. The pendulum motion of the metronome caught his eye. It sat on the bedside table. Keeping time, perfectly. How did it get here, and who wound the spring?? Shit. Shit. Shit!!

 

Relieved he didn’t find some crazed intruder, he studied the bedroom more closely. Everything was as he remembered it. Nothing out of place. He twirled the rings around his index finger and scrutinized the bed. Wow. Ugly duvet pattern. Had he picked that out? Probably.

 

His eyes wandered to the closet door. Had they kept anything in there?  He opened it, and saw a face.

 

BOO!!!

 

Everything went black.  
  
*******************************************

 

As he came to AGAIN, he heard a voice and water running.

 

“AH FUCK. I just know I put him in a fucking coma!! This wasn’t in the plan of things. Jesus Fucking Christ. You just had one simple little mission, and you couldn’t get the fucking job done. Can’t you LEARN anything?? The man is 64 fucking years old! He’s a GRANDFATHER for fuck’s sake!!!”

 

Paul was on the bed and his head ached even worse. He shook it, trying to chase away the cobwebs and figure out what was going on.

 

He heard stomping coming toward the door. He looked up, and every bit of pain flew right out of his head.

 

There stood an absolutely perfect 1965 era John Lennon. Longish hair, scruffy sideboards, jeans, stocking feet, and the sweatshirt Paul had been sniffing earlier… with a cigarette hanging out of his lip and a wet towel in hand.

 

“HOLY FUCK, EDS!! I thought I put ya out of commission!” he quipped.

 

All Paul could do was gape. And listen to that gorgeous voice! It had to be a dream.

“Be careful what you think, sweetheart, I really can read your mind now.” He smirked through the cigarette smoke, eyes twinkling.

 

Staring at the sight of his 1965 John, all he could think was… with all the money and Beatle status he had in 1966? He should have had a hit put out on Yoko; it would have been so simple.

 

“HAHAHA!!! Yeah, I suppose that might have worked, Paulie. Who knows? Shit, your conscience would have sent ya screaming into oblivion. We both know it!”

 

Oh shit. John could read his thoughts. He didn’t care. He slid off the bed and cautiously approached his delightfully vivid imagination.

 

John dropped the wet towel, smiled, and held out his arms. “Its okay Paul, I’m absolutely real. For the time being.”

 

Paul was all over him in two strides. Arms, lips, and tearful babbling, he attacked. Finally he just hung onto John for dear life.  John patiently held onto him and waited for the impromptu storm to settle. It eventually did.

 

Paul finally spoke real words over John’s shoulder. “John? What’s going on? Why are you here?”

 

John slowly released his mate tentacle by tentacle then led him to the bed, and sat him down.

 

“Paul, my time here will be extremely short. I’ve come here to set your mind at ease and fulfill a promise to myself, to us.”

 

“HOW SHORT? I have a lot of questions, and you have a lot of explaining to do.”

 

“No, you have a lot of questions, and we won’t have time for me to explain. That isn’t my purpose.”

 

Paul clung to John’s hand. It was warm. It was alive. It was familiar. He didn’t want to give it up

.

“All right. So what’s your purpose?”

 

“I spent years in denial and fear, Paul. You read all about it in that letter I wrote years ago. I should have said those words myself. I didn’t. I should have at least given you the letter myself. I didn’t. There are a lot of things both of us should have done over the years, but we didn’t. None of that can be changed. I’m here now to change what I wanted to accomplish with those rings. We already share a spiritual bond. My regret is that I didn’t make it a tangible one. I’m here to do that now. For both of us.”

 

Paul shook his head, not quite understanding.

 

John reached into his pocket and retrieved the rings Paul had dropped when he passed out. He held them up to Paul’s face.

 

“I’m here to make it official. We belong to each other. We always have. We always will. All I’ve asked is to be able to exchange these, and spend a little time wearing them. I want you to know that I love you, and want you to believe it. I want you to know that I’m okay, and will wait for you. However long it takes. You need to be happy until we meet again, Paul. It's so fucking important to me that you be happy.”

 

Paul nodded and grinned. “You haven’t changed much, Lennon. While it’s all about you, it’s also about me.”

 

“Don’t try to start a fucking fight with me, McCartney. That was the purpose of the notebook writing; to get all the bullshit out in the open. You’ve had your say, I’ve had mine. We’ve both fucked things up all over the place. Now that’s over. Now we can be happy.”

 

“Shit, I'm so happy to see you again; the last thing I want to do is fight with you, John. I don’t know how you did it, but God Damn, I’m glad you did…” Paul trailed off, precariously close to tears.

 

“You’ve done plenty of crying the last few days Paul. No more of that shit. I’m sorry you still have to deal with Yoko, but it should be easier now. All you need to know is I don’t support her. I was planning to leave and didn’t. It’s all water under the proverbial bridge. She’ll fucking pay, have no doubt about that. Your plan for the press is absolutely brilliant and I can’t wait. When you do that, I’ll be standing right beside your incredible arse throwing a two-finger salute. Count on it, son!”

 

Paul opened a wide smile at that.

 

“Now, all I’ve thought about for years is cuddling with my Paulie. Here in Castle Brunswick, OUR place. C’mon. I don’t know how much time we have.”

 

John leapt on the bed and fluffed the pillows, leaning himself against the headboard. Paul followed immediately, wrapping his arms around John’s middle and settling his head on his chest. There it was… that heartbeat… he closed his eyes and basked in the comfort he had missed for so terribly long.

 

John grabbed Paul’s left arm and pulled it around. He took the ring and gently jerked Paul’s arm to get his attention.

 

“This will be quick… I give you this ring, Paul, an infinite and unbroken circle representing my unending love for you.” He then slipped the ring onto Paul’s finger, and kissed him. He then drew back and studied Paul’s hand. “I was right. It fits!”

 

Paul picked up John’s ring and smirked. He grabbed John’s hand and slipped it onto his finger yelling “DITTO!!” and kissed him back.

 

John laughed. “Oh how I’ve missed my man of many words!!” The sound of John's voice and the sight of that smile was so welcome and overwhelming Paul could hardly stand it.

Paul wrapped his arm back around John and settled in again, it was instant contentment that he hadn't felt for decades. John set his chin down on top of Paul’s head and spoke.

 

“There’s one other thing I’d like you to know, Paul…”

 

“MMM. What’s that?”

 

“If you ever feel the need to tell our story, you have my permission to fucking do it. I need no protection from that. Yoko’s already done a fine job of fucking up my reputation. I’m not requesting you say anything as that will be up to you. I’m just saying if you want to, you needn’t worry about what I would think.”  
  
Paul considered this for about ten seconds.

 

“Okay. I don’t know why I’d need to, but it’s nice to know you feel that way. Maybe when Bea gets older; Heather would have a stroke. Haha.”

 

“She certainly would!! Imagine her marrying a drug infested poofter!!”

 

“Ugh. Let’s not talk about my Yoko, John. I’ll be back to that mess soon enough.”

 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’ll just say that whatever shit life throws at you, you can handle it. You’re my better half, you know.”

 

John squirmed down further into the pillow.

 

“It feels great to be back here with you Paulie. Its home. Safe, warm, and loved. Good memories! Wanna sing, just for old time’s sake??”

 

Paul didn’t have to answer. John knew. John started, and they traded lines as was their habit. They sang the last two lines together. Like it was meant to be. They both knew it always was meant to be. It was magic.

 

_Heartbeat – why do you miss when my baby kisses me?_

_Heartbeat – why does a love kiss stay in my memory?_

_Riddle dee pat – I know that new love thrills me_

_I know that true love will be…_

_Heartbeat –why do you miss when my baby kisses me?_

_Heartbeat – why do you skip when my baby’s lips meet mine?_

_Heartbeat – why do you flip then give me a skip beat sign?_

_Riddle de pat, and sing to me love stories…_

_And bring to me love’s glories…_

_Heartbeat – why do you miss when my baby kisses me?_

 

It was brilliant.

 

Paul woke up the next morning with John’s sweatshirt wrapped around him. John was gone. He wondered if it had all been real.

 

He got out of bed and stretched, feeling kind of sad, but euphoric at the same time.

 

Strange.

 

Out of curiosity he headed out to the living area. He smiled when he smelled, and then saw the half smoked cigarette in the ashtray on the table. He picked up the cigarette and immediately checked the notebook.

 

_Good morning. Be happy, always. Everyone here says hello, by the way._

_I’ll be waiting for you, love._

_Have you checked your ring today?_

_All my love forever,_

_John_

 

Paul smiled and brought his hand up to look at his ring. Both rings were there. Fused together forever. 


End file.
